Pieces of Sunlight
by mistspinner
Summary: My heart is like a rainbow shell/That paddles in a halcyon sea...  Drabbles, ficlets, and birthday requests for members of my fandom family.
1. The Most Dangerous Game

For: Sunfire

* * *

><p>"I still don't see why you don't have cable."<p>

"Because," Matthew said, trying not to sigh, "cable is expensive, and my Prime Minister only gives me a limited stipend –"

"So you're telling me your own leader's too much of a cheapskate to get you ESPN?"

"Alfred, I don't _want _to watch ESPN."

"But this isn't ESPN!" Alfred said, flopping back on the couch and spreading his arms out. "This is – this isn't just _sports,_ this is strategy, this is tactics, this is _culture – _this is, this is _art."_

He paused, then, to turn his head towards Matthew.

"So you're telling me," Matthew said, after a pause, "that the Super Bowl is high art."

Alfred nodded earnestly, blonde hair flopping into his face as he did.

This time Matthew _did _sigh.

"Alfred," he said, sitting down on what space was left on the couch, "it's just _one _game."

"Just one game? _Just one game? _Matt, it's the _Super Bowl! _The S – U – P – E – R, _SUPER, _BOWL! And I'm missing it! And don't roll your eyes!"

"I wasn't," Matthew said (rolling his eyes as he said it). "But, come on, Alfred, it's not that big a deal, really."

"That's what _you _say – it's not as though you guys have ever been big into any sports."

"We have hockey."

"Yeah, but that's _hockey. _I mean, no offense to you or anything, Mattie, but this is _football."_

"Are you saying there's something wrong with hockey?"  
>"No – it's just that football is <em>way <em>manlier."

"Really."

"Well, yeah – I mean, all you guys are total peaceniks up north, and you're playing with sticks, too, so it's not as though you can tackle people to the ground or anything exciting."

Silence. Then –

"Mattie, what are you doing with the remote – oh, God, don't tell me you _were _joking and you're actually letting me watch it now –"

"I wasn't," Matthew said tersely. "But there is a hockey game going on, and I'm missing it."

"But, Matt, I wanna watch –"

"No."

Silence, then.

Alfred had never been good at reading the atmosphere, but it would have taken an obtuse angle to be oblivious to the aura radiating off Matthew's figure.

They watched the first few moments in silence.

Then –

"Woah!" Alfred said, springing up in the seat. "Did he just _do _that? Dude, is that even legal?"

"Yes, then no. Now be quiet, I'm trying to watch."

"Okay."

Several more moments of relative silence.

"What the hell was that?"

"Slashing."

"_What?"_

"Slashing. That's what they call it when you use a stick to hit another person."

"You mean they have a name for it when you fucking try to kill the other person?"

"No. Slashing's only when you try to kill the other person with your _stick. _There's also hooking, boarding, spearing –"

"Spearing? Oh my God, you people are sick – what is hockey, some sort of Canadian gladiator fight? This is the most violent, ruthless, absolutely _sick _thing I have seen all day –"

"Exactly," Matthew said. "That's what makes it so manly."


	2. Enough

For: Violet_dreamer

I apologize in advance to all people from India, Australia, Ireland, and England whose slang and culture I have mercilessly butchered.

* * *

><p>"He hasn't said anything all day," Denmark said. "I mean, I've been here since morning, just waiting, and there's been nothing. Not a word since I came here –"<p>

"Where is he?"

"In his room. Hiding, for all I can tell."

"Hm." Prussia paused, turned slowly to face Denmark with a click-clack of military boots. "Did you say anything about the date?"

"No! I sat here – right _here, _Prussia, in this very spot – for two hours, trying to get him to say _something_ – Ieven offered to try some of his scones, and even that didn't get a response out of him!"

"Hm," Prussia said again.

"So that's why I called you," Denmark said. "I thought you might – well, you know – have some ideas. Do you? Because –"

Prussia held up a finger for silence, and Denmark was instantly quiet.

"I think," he said slowly, "I might. But," he added before Denmark could say anything, "it's not going to be easy. In fact," he said slowly, "I think it's going to be the exact _opposite _of easy. Up for the challenge?"

Denmark stared at Prussia for a few moments, and then – slowly, slowly – grinned.

"Alright," he said, "what do we do?"

* * *

><p>Ah. Now that was much better.<p>

If there was anything England had learned over the past hundred years, it was that nothing was better for improving a bad mood than Earl Grey tea.

So he made tea – the old way, without bags or packages or strings – heating the water and gently brewing the leaves, letting the scent of bergamot slowly fill the air. And it helped, it really did: the small ritual, the slow blossoming of the leaves in water, the gentle warmth of the teacup between his fingers.

It helped. It really did.

But –

Teacup cradled between his hands, England sighed.

Because in the end, it wasn't enough.

England stood up. Smiled, slightly at the teacups and spoons, the soft whiteness of sugar and two-percent in delicate Victorian saucers.

And then turned away, sighed and started for the door.

Perhaps he ought to take Denmark up on his offer. Perhaps it would be better, really, to just forget for a few hours, let alcohol wash away memory until the day was over – yes, that sounded like a good idea, it really did…

England reached for the door –

Only to have it almost slam into his face.

"Hey, England!" Prussia yelled, breaking the silence of the room, stomping on the pieces, and kicking the shards under the carpet as matter-of-factly as if he were invading Silesia. "What's this I hear about not going out with Den and me for a drink, huh?"

"Prussia –"

"Because that's not allowed, okay? You can mope or cry into your tea anytime about France anytime you want –"

"Prussia –"

"– but Saturdays are our time, okay? Den's been waiting for you all morning to come down to the pub –"

"Prussia, what the bloody hell do you want?"

"– do you hear me, England? Do – you – fucking –hear –"

England gave up. Prussia could, at times, have all the denseness of a brick wall. Anyway, England had (unfortunately) known the other nation long enough to know that whatever Prussia was up to, he would reveal it in his due time.

So England sat. Sat, poured himself a cup of Earl Grey tea, and watched Prussia rant while Denmark examined the portraits of the royal princesses (or, to be more specific, their cleavages).

"– and that's why the awesome Prussia cheer-up team is here today! To make you feel better and so that you'll stop acting like an ass!"

"I see."

"Uh-huh! So you better prepare your English arse to be happy again, whether you want to or not!"

"Alright," England said, sipping his tea. There was, after all, no stopping Prussia once he started.

"Annnd the first show of the day," Prussia said, "is the amazing Prussia and his Bollywood traveling troupe!"

And suddenly the room was plunged into darkness.

Somewhere, somehow, drums began beating, a steady, calm rhythm that grew and grew until –

"Suprabhat, Inglainda!" India said, grinning at England as he entered in a shower of purple streamers and nubile women. "India baba is here to cheer you up!"

"India – what – why – how the bloody hell did an elephant fit through the door?"

"We're personified nations, England, deal with it," Prussia said, waving a hand. "Anyway, after you've settled in to enjoy the show, how about some world class entertainment from the land down under!"

"G'day, England!"Australia said, bursting into the room in a cloud of feathers, fur, and dirt (the _carpet, _England winced, the poor _carpet). _"How are we today, hm? A little under the weather, I hear?"

"Australia – I don't even _know _how Prussia managed to get you hear, but – oh my God, is your bloody crocodile trying to eat my vase? That thing's over five hundred years ago, you know!"

"Ah, dun mind Joey, mate," Australia said, grinning as he put his arms (precariously close) around the crocodile's head. "He might look a mite ferocious, but he's a love, he really is."

"Erm, of course," Prussia said, delicately extracting his pant leg from an errant koala who had apparently mistaken the nation for a eucalyptus tree. "Anyways, and after the dazzling displays of animal power by our animal tamer, we'll have some traditional Gaelic dancing –"

"What the fuck? I didn't sign up for this dancing shit!"

"Ireland? What the –"

"Oh, shut up, you bloody wanker! Don't you dare take this the wrong way – I'm only here because _he," _pointing to Prussia, "roped me into this, alright? And if you say about this to Scot, I'm getting the IRA to raise bloody hell again, got it?"

"You know," Denmark remarked, taking his eyes off of the Virgin Queen's bosom to gaze placidly at Ireland, "Japan has a name for people like you. What was it again, Pru? You know, that word he calls people who act like assholes towards people they like –"

"I _DO NOT _LIKE ENGLAND!"

"I've noticed."

"Shut up."

"D'aw, look, they really love each other, Pru."

"_Shut up," _two voices said in unison.

England and Ireland blinked at each other, then glared and turned away.

"Aw, England baba, do not feel sad, alright?" India said, putting an arm around England. "We are all today to cheer you up – even Ayaralainda, even if he doesn't feel like saying so at that moment. So cheer up, alright?"

England didn't say anything.

Because – despite the animals, despite the noise, despite _Ireland, _of all bloody things – it helped, seeing his former colonies there, it really did. It did.

But – in the end –

"And to cap it all," Prussia said, his red eyes suddenly gentle, "something calming from the Western Hemisphere."

No – no – it couldn't be – not today, of all days –

"Um, uh, hi, England."

And there he stood. In his boots and faded jacket, an odd figure against the antique vases and cupboards of china plates: inelegant, unfitting, the New World come to meet the Old.

Bryon and Tennyson, Shakespeare and Marlow – a thousand years of prose and poetry ran through his veins, yet for once England was left without worlds.

"America – why are you –?"

"Well – it's just that, well – today, I dunno," America said, scuffing the (valuable) carpet with his shoes, "I thought I might – you know, instead of going around on diplomatic missions and shit to countries I've never heard of – spend it with you?"

"America –"

"Yeah, yeah, I know – I'm insensitive and rude and probably intruding on your teatime and all that stuff. But – well – c'mon, Iggy, it's my birthday, y'know? Cut me a little slack for once, okay?"

Yes. Yes, he was (insensitive and rude and a million other faults England, of all people, knew all too well), but as he stood there (too tall now, but still _him _for all his height, the same little boy who had called him "Iggy" all those years ago), England couldn't help but, for one moment, forget it all, all the years and bitter memories. Couldn't help but forget that day – years ago but still commemorated today, flashed in a thousand bursts of fireworks and red white blue.

Because there he was. And after all these years, he was still his little brother.

And that was enough.


	3. Hegelian Dialectic

For: Cure_lover

* * *

><p>The thing about Prussia was that he was always right, even when he was completely wrong.<p>

"I'm dangerous," he tells Canada the first time they meet, leaning across the coffee table, that easy, familiar smirk across his face. And yes, Canada thinks, Prussia is: all easy angles and sword-sharp smiles, he is the last time from 'safe' Canada can think of. He has a history. He has a legacy. Countries have fallen under the sword of the Knights; countries nations _people _have bled because of the Prussian military. He's dangerous, it's true. Canada knows.

But then he isn't.

Because when Prussia sleeps until noon, stealing all the blankets and refusing to wake up until Canada brings him pancakes – or when he stands there, hands in his pocket as he asks Canada what his favorite band is – or when he sits there in the sun-lit porch, Gilbird on his fingers as he whispers soft nothings to the canary – then Canada knows that no, he isn't dangerous at all.

"I'm thoughtless," he tells Canada the first time they go on a date, staring off into the distance as he idly fed the pigeons. And yes, Canada thinks, Prussia is: is loud and rude and tactless, perpetually complaining about England's cooking and tracking mud onto Canada's antique carpets. He's tactless; he's hopeless; he's utterly, completely thoughtless. It's true. Canada knows.

But then he isn't.

Because when Prussia kisses him _happy birthday_ every first of July and buys Canada his favorite brand of ice cream – or when they're at a pancake place, and Prussia tells the waitress to keep the change, even though he gave her a twenty and the bill was for ten – or when they visit England and Prussia brings along a tin of China's finest black tea – then Canada knows that no, he isn't thoughtless at all.

"I'm selfish," he tells Canada the first time they kiss, breaking away and staring at Canada with serious eyes. And yes, Canada thinks, Prussia is: always insisting that Canada make him pancakes at strange hours and taking all the maple syrup when he does, fighting with America over the remote when he comes over (and there were times, really, when those legendary military skills did come out), and always (always!) refusing to admit it when Canada beats him at hockey. There are times when Canada wants to hit him, tell him that yes, he was indeed most selfish person Canada had ever met_._ Because, oh yes, Prussia is selfish. Canada knows.

But then he isn't.

Because when Prussia wakes up early to make him breakfast in bed, kissing Canada gently as he brings him muesli and wurst – or when Italy demands Germany take him out for a date and Prussia offers to take care of the paperwork while Germany is gone, even though Prussia detests paperwork – or when Canada has to stay late at a NATO meeting, and Prussia cleans the house while he waits for him to return – then Canada knows that no, he isn't selfish at all.

"We shouldn't be together," he tells Canada just last week, not looking at him as he stirs sugar into his coffee. And yes, Canada thinks as he watches the crystals dissolve into the black liquid, it's true – they shouldn't be together, not the two of them, not like this. The world's most militaristic nation and the world's most peaceful one – strange bedfellows, England would have called it, calmly sipping his tea as he gave Canada a look that clearly said _I told you so – _shouldn't be together, shouldn't be able to coexist much less have a relationship with one another. All logic – all _history – _says they shouldn't be together. Canada knows that, knows it with the bite of something bittersweet, like coffee with sugar.

But then they are.

It's an impossible thing, a miraculous thing, the type of thing that happens only once in a blue moon when the sunset is red – the type of thing that shouldn't happen, that _doesn't _happen – and so Canada plans to enjoy _every moment of it._

So Canada kisses Prussia, and Prussia – a little startled at first, a little surprised – kisses him back.


	4. Odd Bedfellows

For: Sivester

So it's the world meeting, again, and America's babbling on about some idiotic scheme of his or another while England sips tea and looks disapprovingly on and Greece tries to kick Turkey out (again) while Italy sleeps and Germany tries to restore order – in short, it's a mess, it's always been a mess, and France, honestly, doesn't mind. It gives him more time, after all, to think of other, more important things – like, for instance, l'amour.

Or it would have if it weren't for Prussia.

Prussia. Prussia, loud and obnoxious and jarring Prussia. Prussia, who won't _shut the hell up._

"So, yesterday, I took Gilbird to the park and –"

"Very interesting," France says, trying to look over Prussia's head at Spain and Romano, who were doing some quite dubious and interesting things with their tongues. "Now, Prussia, I'm sure Germany would like very much to hear about this as well –"

"Germany? But I already told him about it!"

"Go tell it to America, then," France hissed, trying desperately to catch a view of Spain, who – if the faint glances he had caught were anything to go by – was taking off Romano's belt.

"America? France, I told him about that a week ago."

"Romania, then!"

"Told it to him a week ago, too."

_Dear God, _France thought, _he's gone and told this inane story of his to every country in Europe, hasn't he?_

"China, then!"

"Already knows."

In the background, Romano made a small, throaty noise.

"Australia!" If only Prussia would move a few inches to the left –

"Told him about it yesterday."

"Cameron!"

"France, where have you been? I told Cam about this _ages _ago."

Romano made another throaty sound, and this time, Spain reciprocated.

"Hong Kong!"

"Last week."

"Canada!"

"Two days ago."

France was on the verge of tears. Romano's pants were coming down and _Prussia was blocking his view._

"Well – go tell it to Iceland, will you, then?"

Silence, this time. And then –

"Okay!" Prussia said, cheerfully standing up. "Talk to you later, Francey-pants!"

"Mm-huh," France said, not even taking in the nickname as his eyes focused their way on Spain's _very _clever tongue. Ah, now that looked quite nice, indeed –

* * *

><p>"Hey! Yeah, you, Iceland!"<p>

"Hm?"

"Yeah, you're seeing things right, Icey," Prussia said, grinning as he pulled out a chair and sat down, "the awesome Prussia is here! With the equally awesome Gilbird!" he said, proudly propping out a wrist, on which said bird was perched on.

"…oh."

"Isn't he awesome?" Prussia asked.

"I suppose."

"Huh? What do you mean, you suppose? Of course he is! Gilbird is the cutest and the greatest and bestest bird _any_ country could ask for! Ever!"

"I prefer puffins," Iceland said, and pointed to the one on his shoulder.

And then, just like that, the room fell utterly silent.

It would be right to say that not much came out of the chaos; right to say that, out of the debris, there was little left to pick up. What is known, though, is this: Italy woke up, Turkey and Greece stopped hitting each other, America stopped talking, and Spain and Romano – much to France's disappointment – stopped taking off each others' clothes.

And in what remained of what once was the UN headquarters, a baby chick and a puffin sat side-by-side, and slowly fell asleep against one another.


	5. Of Empire

For: Tine

Spain doesn't cry.

1559, and after the first few days of Hapsburg rule, Romano runs away. Because it's been less than a week, but already he can't stand it: not the palace (too much, too bright, gilt and gold and gaudiness everywhere) or the court (too much, decadence and deceit and Romano knows they are secretly laughing at him, laughing at him every moment behind his back) and especially not Spain, not Spain at all (too much, sunshine and smiles and such kindness Romano knows it must be a lie, a trick of the light) –

So Romano runs away. Runs from Madrid, from marble sculptures and sculptors who seem like little more than sculptures themselves, runs as far as his legs will take him. But he is young, and he is recognizable, doesn't know the language or the people.

And so Spain finds him, on the third day: shivering; hungry; terribly, terribly lost. He stands there and is silent for a moment, and Romano is suddenly, terribly struck by the idea that Spain might cry. But then he doesn't, only slowly picks Romano up (smiling, smiling, still smiling), kisses him on the forehead, and slowly leads him home.

And Spain does not cry.

1588, and the Armada comes back: battered, broken, little more than driftwood as it sits in the waters. The Duke stands there – wet, thin, tired and worn – and tries to explain, to – somehow, through gestures or words – tell what went wrong. The King listens, says nothing, and for the longest time, neither does Spain. And Romano is terrified – horribly, horribly frightened, for he is still young, still a child, after all – because he knows that Spain will not take this well, will not will not will not and will cry.

But then he doesn't, only puts an arm around the Duke of Parma's shoulders and smiles. Tells me: yes, it is alright, these things happen, it's not your fault, it's okay, it's okay. It's okay. The same way he had told Romano a million times, the same words Romano had fallen asleep to a million times over the year.

And slowly, slowly, the Duke smiles.

Spain claps him on the shoulder, and smiles too.

And Spain does not cry.

1643, and it is after Rocroi, Spain has lost, lost almost four men to each one of France, lost, lost, for what is almost the first time in a hundred years. And as they stand there, survey the battlefield as the crows peck at the eyes of the dead, Romano sees something in Spain's eyes, sees the smile leave Spain's face. And Romano wonders, wonders if this will be it, the moment Spain finally breaks, finally cries –

But then he doesn't. Only smiles, smiles, and hugs Romano against his chest. Tells him those same words, that lullaby charm: it's okay, it's okay. Only this time Romano isn't sure whom Spain is trying to convince.

And Spain does not cry.

1701, and Romano throws a temper tantrum, rips wallpaper and kicks down priceless statues in the Escorial because what was he doing, the idiot, trying to join with that bastard France when it was obvious the whole of Europe was against it, and, fuck it, what if Europe won? Spain wasn't invincible anymore, after all, and what would happen if the others won? What would happen to Madrid, to Spain, to Romano – fuck it, what would happen to them...?

And there is a terrible sadness in Spain's eyes as he looks at Romano, something piercing and tragic and broken, and a wave of fear overtakes Romano as he thinks _no, _not now, not this, not when Romano himself was in no state to be of any comfort –

But then he doesn't. Only smiles, smiles and pats Romano on the head. Tells him that to go to the kitchen, there was flan there and Magdalenas and perhaps the cook would have some pasta on hand, too. Smiles and smiles, all sunshine and sunny disposition (a trick of the light).

And Spain does not cry.

And then it is 1713 and the war is over and the treaty is signed. And it is over and Romano is going to live with Austria now, who is work and efficiency and brilliance and none of Spain's sunshine. And at first Spain smiles at it, tells Romano to be good and eat his vegetables, okay? and work extra hard at his piano too, and and and –

And then it starts. The first tear, and Romano is startled out of sullenness when he sees it. Because after the first one comes another and then suddenly Spain is shaking, shaking as he stands there, holding Romano by the shoulders and crying, crying, openly, in front of the diplomats and other nations and and and –

And then Romano – half still in shock, half still startled and scared – takes Spain by the shoulders and kisses him on the forehead.

And then, as if from a distance, Romano sees himself smiling, sees himself wiping the tears from Spain's face. Hears himself saying those words, a lullaby, a charm: it's okay, it's okay. It's okay.

It's okay.


	6. In Darkest Hour

For: Panda

It is the twelfth of September, and the sky has come crashing down.

Wednesday after the attacks and England tells Blair to arrange a plane to America, fast, and Blair complies, comes down to New York City and meets England at the airport the next morning. England is glad of that, glad of his punctuality and his business-like manner, glad that he smiles at the Americans on the street but never at England. It gives him peace, lends some semblance of normalcy to the whole thing.

America, though, America, he tries, smiles at the kids, too, hands out candy and laughs with the mayor. But England notices, notices the small things, the cracks in the façade. Notices the small shaking of his hands when he hands out Kit-Kats, notices the small nervousness in his smiles. Notices how, when America laughs, it is too loud, too much: almost forced, nearly unnatural. Few other people notice, of course; few people will. But England does.

So there they are, in a room high above the city, in a room with a dozen diplomats and heads of state who all think too much of themselves, and fuck it all if America isn't there either, making a sad parody of himself as he tries too hard to smile, to laugh, to be happy and cheerful and America. Half-way through the meeting, England feels the urge to stand up, to leave, because it was sad, it was bloody stupid and sad and noble and so _American _it hurt. He doesn't, though, only sits there and sips his tea and glares murderously out the window.

"So I think," America says, smiling that smile England has learned to hate so much in the past few hours, "that would be the best way to deal with al-Qaeda. What do you guys think of that, then?" That smile: flash of teeth, nothing more. Eyes, nervous, darting from face to face.

For the longest time, no one says anything, and England almost breaks his teacup.

Then Blair stands and says, "I think that's a wonderful idea" – unruffled, unfazed, cool and calm and collected – and England is hit with a wave of gratitude towards the man his people elected prime minister. Because it's a bloody stupid idea, as absolutely idiotic as every other scheme America had ever cooked up, yet, yet, yet –

"Thanks for coming," America says, after the meeting is over, and there is something in his voice, something England has not heard there in a long, long time. It is gratitude; it is uncertainty; it is need, raw and open and blistering and sweet, soft like blood drops on snow. And perhaps it is the heat; perhaps it is the shock, not yet twenty-hours old and still stinging, still unbandaged – but in any case, England finds himself saying, without trace of his usual sarcasm or bitterness, "you're welcome."

America smiles, and it is a real smile – a small smile, yes, but the first real smile England had seen since the day of the attacks.

And, slowly, England smiles back.


	7. Of Chivalry

For: Farfetched Fairy

Prussia doesn't open doors.

He doesn't wipe his feet on the carpet, texts during movies (sound on full-volume, each message going out with a shrill beep-beep-beep), forgets to tip fifteen percent at restaurants, and – on planes – _always takes both arm rests._

Canada knows all this, of course, knows and disapproves of and sighs at it (but gently, of course, always with a half-smile, glasses slipping down his nose), but loves Prussia in spite of it. Loves him in spite of it – in spite of the egoism, the rudeness, the occasional tendencies to act like, well, an ass – because, deep down, Canada knows that Prussia loves him as well.

And that is enough.

Not that it makes it any easier, though. And it's hard – really hard, at times, and especially times like this, when Prussia is slumped on the couch, the sound of ESPN at full volume intermittent with the crackling of the Doritos bag adding to Canada's (already throbbing) paperwork-induced headache – to remember Prussia's good points.

But he tries, nonetheless.

"Gil," he calls out, hoping against hope to be heard over the roar of Jon Gruden's voice, "could you please, um, turn it down a bit?"

No response.

Sighing, Canada stands up, the papers on his desk fluttering lightly as he closed the door.

Prussia is in the exact position Canada had left him in – sprawled out on his side, a dozen cushions pilfered from the loveseats surrounding him like some medieval garrison, eyes focused on the flickering screen in front of him – and for a moment, Canada just stands in the doorway: watching, waiting.

Canada waits – and then, after a few minutes, sighs and speaks.

"Gil. Gilbert. Gil, do you have a moment?"

No response.

"Gil. Gil. Giiiiiilllll. Hey, Gil? Gil. GIL! Gil?"

"Huh?" Prussia asks, turning his head to glance at Canada. "Oh, hey, Mattie – something up?"

"No," Canada sighed, "it's just, well, you know – I mean it's just – I've got a lot of paperwork tonight, so you wouldn't mind, just, you know – turning the sound down a little?"

Pause. Silence.

Prussia cocked his head to one side.

"Oh. Okay. Sure thing, Mattie."

Canada smiled.

"Thanks."

* * *

><p>Despite the lowered sound, Canada can tell when the game is over – can tell by the profanity, the gentle creaking of sofa springs, the soft sound of padding feet and the creak of the door as Prussia peers inside the workroom.<p>

"Maaatttie," he says, walking inside and looping his hands around Canada's neck. "Maaaaatttie."

"Hi, Gil," Canada replies, not looking up from his papers. A few minutes pass, the only sound that of Prussia's scuffling on the wood. Canada finishes his paper, puts it aside, and reaches for another one –

"Oh, come on," Prussia sighs, snatching the paper out of Canada's hand. "Mattie, you've been in here reading since_ two. _I mean, I get that you've dedicated and busy and kind of addicted to this, but c'mon, what the fuck? Even West doesn't sit in a room by himself for eight hours and read briefs."

"Gil," Canada says, turning around, glasses slipping slightly as he sighs, "if you were hungry, you could have just, you know, told me."

"Yeah?" Prussia asks, grinning as he keeps the paper just out of reach. "And where'd the fun be in that?"

* * *

><p>Canada makes tourtière with pigeon and cloves, shooing Prussia out of the kitchen when the smell of frying meat lures the other nation in (because Gods knows Prussia's only experience with a frying pan had been at the end of one), stirring the gravy absentmindedly as he thinks of the papers he still has to read.<p>

Canada eats quickly, mind so far away he hardly notices when Prussia slips food to Kumajiro.

"Excuse me," he mutters automatically, standing up as he finishes his food. "I'll do the dishes in a bit."

And then Canada all but sprints back to his study and his paperwork.

Ah. Now this was better. Now, he could focus – could work, work and read because there was so, so very much to do and absolutely no time to do it and everyone was counting on him, all his people depending on him to do this right to do this _right _–

(and if he didn't, if he didn't, if, if, _if –)_

Canada wakes up to warmth and softness and the smell of pancakes.

Burning.

It's not even conscious, anymore – more instinct, because before he has enough time to process what where _why, _Canada is up and out of bed, hardly aware of the fact that he is still in his day clothes because _oh dear God this couldn't be good –_

"Gilbert!" he cries, skidding to a stop in the doorway to the kitchen. "Gil – what did I tell you –"

Prussia turns, sees Canada, and tries for his most convincing innocent smile.

In his other hand, the skillet smolders slightly.

"Oh, um, hey, Mattie, so you're awake now, huh? I was wondering when you'd wake up – you were out for pretty long, you know, and – well, anyways, it's nearly twelve now, so maybe we should just go out and get some pizza or something –"

"Twelve?" Canada says, nearly sputtering at the word. "Twelve? I slept that _long?" _

"Well, um, yeah, but if you'd ask me, it kind of looked like you needed the rest –"

"Not that much!"

"Hey, Mattie, I don't think oversleeping a couple of hours is that big of a deal, really –"

"Not that big of a deal? _Not that big of a deal? _Gil, these reports are due by Tuesday – and if I don't get them in by then –"

Canada's words were cut off abruptly, then, as Prussia gently placed a hand over his mouth.

"Mattie," he said, each syllable slow and careful, "calm down. Not. The end of the world."

"But –"

"I know you care a whole fucking lot about your people and all that – we all do, okay? – but you really need to just. Calm. Down. No one's going to die because of a little paperwork – and, seriously, Mattie, I don't think it's all that great for your people if you work yourself sick because of this shit. You're their fucking country, Mattie – I'm pretty sure you're a whole fucking lot more important than some paperwork."

Silence, for a while.

Then, slowly, Canada smiled at Prussia, small and wry.

"I guess that was pretty stupid of me, eh?"

"Pretty much yeah," Prussia says, shrugging. "S'okay, though. Although," he added, "you could consider making some of those pancakes to make it up to me. For, you know, washing the dishes and stuff."

"Washing the dishes?"

"Okay, so I put them in the dishwasher, so what? You still owe me pancakes."

And Canada laughs at that, laughs but complies nonetheless. Because even if Prussia wasn't a gentleman, was tactless and demanding and hardly a knight in shining armor who couldn't cook to save his life, he tried. He _tried, _and loved Matthew besides.

And that was enough.

* * *

><p>Jon Gruden = announcer for ESPN, otherwise known as that one sports channel I never watch<p>

tourtière = a type of meat pie common in Canada


	8. International Diplomacy

International Diplomacy

For: Tweaksy (and with love)

England was in a Mood.

It was not a good one.

There were many reasons for this, but if the many woes currently assuaging the nation had to be summed up in a word, it would be have to be this: France.

France.

_Fucking France._

France, who was oh-so-much more scenic than dreary, rainy England; France, who was so much more fun to be around than sarcastic, grumpy England; France, whose cooking was _so much fucking better than England's._

So when it had come time to decide who would host this year's UN dinner and every nation in Europe had looked meaningfully at France, England decided that he had had enough – enough of being bested by a nation who couldn't even hold its own in a battle, enough of having his food thought inedible, enough and enough of _it all – _

And that was when England decided that, this year, he would be hosting the UN dinner.

So here he was, kneading bread as though it had wronged him and chopping onions as though each and every one of them had killed a family member of his. Because, fuck it, he was a _damn fine _cook and his food at least _ten times _better than France's –

The door opens, and England – expecting Romano, expecting America, expecting France – barks out "what?" with such vehemence the walls quiver at it.

Finland looks startled for exactly three seconds, and then is all cheer, all enthusiasm as he steps into the kitchen.

"Hey, England!" he says, putting the jar he was carrying on the counter, grabbing a scone, and, not missing a beat, kissing England on the cheek. "How are you?"

"Finland – what are you – not that it isn't nice to see you, too – but what the hell are you doing here?"

"Helping you, of course!" Finland says, beaming.

And England would have protested at that, would have and almost did because, damn it, he was a damn fine cook and he didn't need _anyone's _help –

Except for the fact that that was when Finland took a bite out of the scone and, after chewing, brightly proclaimed it, "actually pretty good."

"What do you mean, 'actually?'" England protested, puffing himself up to his full and impressive height (which, in actuality, wasn't all that much taller than Finland). "I don't know where the others got the idea that I couldn't cook, but, I assure you, my cuisine is delicious and perfectly edible –"

"Really?" Finland asked, almost dropping the scone in surprise. "Up north, they all say the same thing about my food – I don't know why, either, I've always eaten it, and Sve's always thought it was quite good – but," he added, shoulders noticeably drooping, "somehow, whenever my brothers and I get together, no one ever wants to eat my food.

_No one._"

Finland's bottom lip quivered, and England thought _oh dear._

"It's alright," England said, awkwardly patting Finland on the back as he steered him towards the kitchen, "I'm sure your cooking is just fine."

"R-really?"

England nodded. "Perfectly fine. The critics are just uncouth barbarians who wouldn't appropriate fine cuisine if it hit them in the face. But," England continued, a dangerous light in his eyes, "tonight, we'll show them – oh, yes, we will. We'll cook them a meal so delicious, so wonderful, so _memorable_ even _France _will be begging for the recipe –"

Which, three weeks later, he would. As a weapon of war.

* * *

><p>Certain things should not happen.<p>

England cooking, for one – but the other nations had (unfortunately) grown used to _that _over the years, and so had learned to pick through blackened lumps with false smiles and cheery compliments (international diplomacy, after all) while managing to not eat a single bite – because while there was international diplomacy, there were also certain things that simply Should Not Happen.

So when England had issued one of his perennial ultimatums that he host the annual UN dinner _or else, _the other nations – after so much fidgeting, um-ing, and foot-tapping that England had nearly threatened to un-invite everyone from the Deathly Hallows signing – the other nations had acceded. International diplomacy (and the chance to finally confront Rowling about Why Hermione and Harry Were Meant for Each Other), after all.

Certain things, however, not only should not happen, but were also simply not _meant _tohappen.

Finland jumping up when England retreated to the kitchen with a cheerful "I'll help!" was one of them. Because while England cooking and Finland cooking were, by themselves, things which simply Should Not Happen, England and Finland cooking _together _was sometimes that was meant to never, ever happen, not in a hundred universes or a million realities –

But which had in this one.

Much to everyone's horror.

* * *

><p>"Food's ready!" Finland called.<p>

Nobody moved. Nobody said anything – well, except for Sweden, whose gruff "'kay" resonated in the otherwise dead silence.

They brought out the food. England was scowling and wearing a "Kiss the Cook" apron at odds with the glower on his face. Finland, though, was beaming, an Aurora Borealis of a thing that would have lit up a thousand North Poles with its light.

And it would have been a pity, really, India thinks glumly as he picks at the… thing on his plate, truly a pity to make that smile disappear – yet, at the same time…

Down the table, America poked the thing on his plate that might have once been a fish, and can swear that it _hisses _at him.

Further down, Sweden calmly continues eating.

The food comes – plate after plate of it, black and brown and ominously iridescent, burnt and undercooked and drenched in lye and sometimes _all at the same time._

Soup comes, and the nations smile and pretend to sip at what looks like the surface of a scum-covered pond; salad comes, and the lettuce is so wilted it seems to be so from shame; the main course comes, nominally fish and chips but in reality an eldritch abomination from the deeps intent on destroying the minds of all who gazed upon it.

And Finland smiles, smiles a streak of bright sun as he serves it all, and the nations have no choice but to gaze back at the malevolent entity on their plates.

Sweden asks for seconds of everything, and England gladly obliges, looking the happiest he has in decades.

Then Finland announces that dessert is ready, and the other nations look at each other as one. No words are said, but none are needed; the abject terror present in each pair of eyes is conversation enough.

But there is nothing they can do, no words or ways subtle enough to leave without offending either of their hosts. International diplomacy had invited them there, and international diplomacy kept them there, unmoving and terrified in plush seats.

So they smile and wait, a tableau frozen in mutual terror –

And then Finland comes out, smiling, and it is even worse than they had expected. It made the soup earlier look like haute cuisine, and the level of horror it induces makes the fish and chips look like a mewling newborn kitten.

Finland cheerfully serves each nation, seemingly oblivious to both the horror on his plate and on the faces of the other nations.

And then – just as the other nations are thinking that no, not even the threat of nuclear war would be threat enough to suffer through another faked bite for, because there were things even international diplomacy could not expect you to do – the kitchen exploded.

Later, America will make a movie about it, a terrible direct-to-home production wherein he stands heroically and fights back the fifty-foot monsters besieging the UN, but – in the moment – he is just as glad as any of the other nations to escape England and Finland's cooking

* * *

><p>AN: So, apparently, Finnish people don't normally greet each other with kisses - however, given Finland's personality, I think it would be something he would do, much to the mortification of his people :)


End file.
